Title: How You Do
By: amazonqueenkate
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Nick/Greg; Nick/Bobby
Prompt: 084 - He
Word Count: 1,300
Rating: Older teens for vague sex and a curse word.
Author's Notes: Written after a conversation about Nick/Greg versus Nick/Bobby. Thanks to Kelly for the read-through.

He invites Bobby out for coffee on an overcast Tuesday morning that's blustery and cool, strange weather even for Vegas and its appearing-out-of-nowhere spring rain storms. He orders his coffee black with two sugars while Bobby opts for a latte. He chooses a back booth, away from the counter and the door, and it's only after they sit down that Bobby notices how tired he looks. He tends to look tired after hard cases - cases with small children especially (like today's, in which a father drowned his ten-year-old daughter in the family swimming pool before she could "be a bitch like her momma") - but this is worse than usual. The lines around his eyes are deep and his eyes are bloodshot as he sips his coffee and stares listlessly into the relatively quite coffee shop.

"We broke up," he says about halfway through, when Bobby is starting to wonder if they'll ever say anything more substantial to one another than "good coffee". "Well, I didn't break up. He broke up. Left. Whatever."

Bobby's mouth goes dry. One of the chattier personnel secretaries had once mentioned to him and Judy that Greg Sanders had turned in a change of address form. The rumor mill had turned for weeks after that, but hearing it from the source feels different than idle speculation with Jacqui in the fingerprint lab. "Greg?" he asks after a moment.

"Yeah." He sips his coffee and then sets it down suddenly, turning the paper cup around and around in his hand. "He doesn't get it. I mean, it's not like I want to keep things in, you know? But I'm not the type to wear my heart on my sleeve. Not like him." He snorts. "He told me I didn't love him."

"That ain't right," Bobby assures him, and the tired eyes come up to his face. "If Greg can't understand that you can love him without shoutin' it from the rooftops, that's his loss." He picks at the lip of his latte with his thumbnail. "If it was me, I wouldn't let that get in the way, y'know?"

He smiles slightly and shakes his head. "You'd have the guts to say it," he says. There's admiration in the back of his voice, and Bobby's cheeks threaten to warm themselves up. "Or at least find a middle ground."

"Yeah, but because I'd want to," Bobby replies, "and not because I'd have to."

==

He invites Bobby over to his house on a blisteringly hot Saturday they both have off, and the sun beats down against the pavement of his patio as he fires up the grill. Not even their beers stay cool for long, but the steaks and potatoes send tantalizing scents floating through the dry desert air, and they taste like something out of a Food Network TV special. He looks better, smiling as he dishes sautéed mushrooms and onions onto his plate, and the conversation drifts from work to sports and back to the present. His lawn is sparsely but tastefully landscaped, and it feels domestic in a strange way.

"I owed you," he says as they bring the dishes into the kitchen, and Bobby smiles slightly at him. "For talking to me the other day. I was kind of a mess."

Bobby opens his mouth to assure him it really wasn't a problem, but before he can say another word, there are lips on his. Spices, beer, butter, garlic, it mingles together and Bobby presses him into the cabinetry as they both work to find skin under t-shirts. It's a rushed show of affection but as scalding as the sunshine outside, and even if he should be reluctant, Bobby throws himself into the embrace.

His bed is soft and complies easily to the weight of two grown men, and they shuck their clothes onto the rug. Bobby gasps as unfamiliar hands, callused but still tender, caress every inch of his skin. His chest aches as he explores the unfamiliar body with his lips and teeth, and delightful grunts and groans echo through the room. Sunlight drifts in through the almost-closed blinds, and there are shadows and light on his face, darkening and illuminating the expressions of pleasure at the same time.

When it's over, they lay together on the bed, Bobby gasping for oxygen along with coherency.

"That was…" He shakes his head, and Bobby watches as he closes his eyes and sighs. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Bobby agrees, closing his own eyes. They're silent for another moment before he adds, "You didn't owe me."

"Yeah." He shifts on the sheets, and a hand drifts up Bobby's side. The touch feels like electricity, and he's tempted to pull away. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"All of it."

Bobby frowns and opens his eyes, but it's too late; he's rolled away, out of the bed, and is moving towards his discarded boxer-briefs. "Never mind."

"Hey." Bobby sits up and blinks. He feels disoriented, and with the sun setting, the room is dim. "Hey, what do you - "

"Never mind," he repeats, and Bobby feels in the pit of his stomach that he's missed something. "I'm bein' stupid."

Bobby almost asks, but then he's shaking his head and plodding out of the door in his underwear, into the silence of the rest of his house.

==

He invites Bobby (and most of the night shift) to dinner at a pizza parlor on a Wednesday that is half cloud and half sun, the light disappearing behind thick patches of white cotton candy and leaving the ground below dark. The pizza drips grease and long strings of cheese stretch from the pans and hang over the sides, but it's delicious and Bobby eats it willingly as he laughs at something Archie's obsessing about. Laughter and chatter is abundant from all corners, and it's only after several pitchers of soda have come and gone that he interrupts the festivities by standing.

"I know this is kind of weird," he says seriously, when Bobby is starting to wonder why he's invited everyone out to eat, "but I screwed up, and I'm fixing it." He glanced down at Greg, who - seated in the next seat - looked ready to burst at the seams. "Greg and I are dating."

Across the table, Catherine Willows starts to choke on her drink. "Nicky!" she scolds loudly enough that the denizens of Arizona probably heard loud and clear. "Is this what all that drama last week was about?"

He smiles sweetly and replies, but Bobby doesn't hear. He watches Archie pull out his wallet and smells the pizza, tastes his soda and crinkles his napkin between his fingers, but his ears fail him.

When the group breaks up to depart for work and Bobby's nearly in his car, a hand lands on his arm. His grip is sure and his expression is dour. "Bobby," he greets, not unkindly but certainly without gentleness.

Bobby pulls his arm away. "Look, Nick, I've got a zillion bullets to run, so if you don't mind - "

"Thank you." He says it simply, and his eyes - no longer tired, no longer desperate, but dark and meaningful all the same - don't move away from Bobby's face.

Bobby expects an addition, and he sighs when none comes.

"Nick!" Greg calls, and they both glance across the parking lot to where he's waving. "Griss just called - we're going straight to a scene!"

"In a sec, G!" he calls back, and starts to turn away.

Bobby smiles slightly, somehow, and shakes his head. "You go," he urges. "He's waiting for you."

For a moment, he stays there, a breath away from Bobby. But then, he nods and walks away, and it's all Bobby can do to get into his car and close the door behind him.